


With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things had gotten out of hand quickly, quicker than John or Lestrade could follow. In moments they were swept from the humdrum of their new lives up into the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Oh yes, Sherlock returned in a winters day, black specter against the driven snow.  </p><p>He always was a dramatic git.</p><p>or</p><p>Molly Hooper always was so much more than anyone seemed to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

'It is the peculiar quality of a fool to perceive the faults of others and to forget his own.'  
Marcus Tullius Cicero

xxx

Things had gotten out of hand quickly, quicker than John or Lestrade could follow. In moments they were swept from the humdrum of their new lives up into the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.

Oh yes, Sherlock returned in a winters day, black spectre against the driven snow. 

He always was a dramatic git.

John Watson, no longer a bachelor, had been sitting in his new apartment ready to sit down to tea with his girlfriend when the consulting detective rose from the dead, aparating in to his living room and as always- demanding something. He looked different, hair shorter and slicked back, dressed in jeans and a short grey coat over a shirt for a band John didn't recognise. He wasn't Sherlock, but he was.

John had acted accordingly, he did not faint or fade. He had acted as any reasonable man would. He punched the taller git's lights out and screamed at him more profanities than he thought he knew. Mary had stood from the kitchen door, eyes alert and intelligent in a way the John knew he could never truly understand.

Before John could get in another punch, before Mary could step in and remind him that he actually loved the man before him, Sherlock did something John Watson was convinced he would never do.

He begged. 

Sherlock Holmes, disgraced and defamed and yet always proud, had stood before John Watson and Mary and begged. John had not been struck by the words, but by the wild unseeing look in his eyes and the strained baritone of his voice. He looked crazed. He looked desperate.

“Please, John. Please, I need your help.”

Mary had acted, cool and kind as ever, and said to Sherlock what he could not articulate himself.

“Always.”

Sherlock had stared at Mary for a long moment before some stability settled over his person and his eyes became the unyielding steel that John remembered. He was not ashamed to admit that he hugged the stupid git then. 

...

Within minutes Lestrade was barging into the apartment and socking Sherlock in the face as well. Though unlike John before the consulting detective could hit the floor, Lestrade had him in a bone crushing bear hug whilst he verbally berated the younger man. 

Sherlock had acted in typical Sherlock-style, congratulating the detective for finally leaving his ex-wife once and for all, and for his ability to keep his status despite the ridicule that would have followed his death. The older detective had actually laughed. 

But their little state of delirium could not last. Sherlock was back for a reason. With Mary standing watch, they sat in the unlit living room while Sherlock divulged why he had died and why he chose now to live again.

His voice seemed to bounce from the walls, surrounding them in the way it used to before the fall. He spoke of snipers, of Moriarty's own fall (if he had been Moriarty at all – Sherlock had his doubts), of a chase across the world to incinerate the spiders web and incapacitate its soldiers. He spoke of countries, changed identities, The Woman's own rise from the dead, of his almost death and how he had finally taken down the second of the three snipers in Budapest in the middle of a thunderstorm. John had the feeling that this was the only time he would witness such untainted clear honesty from his friend, and yet he knew that he was keeping some things to himself still. 

“...Sebastian Moran is the only remaining of the network that needs to be detained, Moriarty's right hand. I almost had him two months ago … and I almost died. And now I have followed him to London.”

“But why?” Mary asked suddenly from her perch on the arm of Johns armchair, causing her boyfriend and the detective to jump, “Why chose to come back now? You have the whole world to hunt him in, why would he come back now?”

Sherlock was still once more as he stared at Mary- no through Mary. John wondered how long it had been since he had actually, truly spoken to someone. He shifted against the wall where he was leaning so as to see all the room and around the curtains on too the street at the same time. His eyes fell to the sparkling ring on Mary's left hand.

“Bloody hell...” Lestrade breathed.

“My best friend is to be married,” Sherlock said, looking anywhere but at the others in the room, “I had hoped to observe the woman who claimed his heart. I suspect he wishes to do the same.”

Mary squinted, and John felt himself fall more in love with her.

“Is that all the reason you came back?”

Sherlock scowled. John grinned.

“I also made … promises. Promises I intended to keep.”

Lestrade stood and took a step towards the younger man.

“Okay, no more games,” he announced, holding Sherlock's gaze, “I need to know why you are here for real mate. I need to know how I can help you- to get this Moran or to clear your name- whatever!... just tell me what you need.”

Lestrade was a passionate man, that was obvious to anyone who knew him, and John watched as the passion in the older detectives words struck something behind the detectives eyes. They sparked and softened, and Sherlock softened the set of his jaw as his eyes stayed locked onto Lestrade's.

“I am weak,” He spoke, voice low and strained and oh so vulnerable.

“Say again?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes violently and when he spoke again he seemed like the brusque and abrupt man he had been years ago.

“I am not as untouchable as people- as I – would like to think. I have weaknesses... and now Moran has one of them...”

John cocked his head and squinted.

“Moran has something of yours? That's why you came back. That hardly seems very diabolical, mate.”

Sherlock moved to sit on the floral couch, careful to stay out of sight of the outside world. He ran his hands through his hair and his eyes darted frantically.

“Obviously, John, it is much more than you can perceive.”

“Alright,you-”

“Moran lived for Moriarty, saw himself as an extension of a him in fact. He was his entire world, and I took Moriarty from him. And now that I am so close to shutting down the empire he helped build he plans on following through on Moriarty's old threat … and he has prayed on my blindness to do so.”

John's mind swam, but once more it was Mary who spoke.

“He is going to burn the heart out of you.”

Sherlock locked his eyes to hers and smirked at her. Cold and fake and oh so damned.

“Is John in danger?”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes flitting to the curtains.

“Not at all ...yet,” His all knowing orbs moved to the older detective inspector, “Nor are you or Mrs Hudson. From the moment I 'died' Mycroft installed agents into your lives as protective detail. Your surrounding neighbours are quite obviously spooks, John.”

“Who is Mycroft?” Lestrade raised, with his arms crossed and a detective patented spark in his eyes. 

“The British Government.”

John chuckled then, a tooth filled grin splitting his face open. Lestrade was baffled once more, and the feeling came through with a wave of nostalgia. He grinned too.

Mary, born of curiosity and a certain soft abruptness, moved to sit beside Sherlock. Her blue eyes were wide and mouth set determinately. John watched as Sherlock's eyes narrowed and she shuffled minutely away from her. Still he loathed physical contact.

“Then what? What will burn your heart out?”

Sherlock took a moment to speak again, running his hands hard through his hair, dishevelling it into curls. He looked a part like his old self. But his face .. John Watson had seen that face only once before. When Mrs Hudson had been harmed, and John had been ordered from the room. Thunderous and full of heavenly fire.

“I was blind ...until confronted. Moriarty was blind even after he pulled the trigger. Moran is not so inhibited.”

John shifted. He spoke like a soldier about to be taken to the front. Like so many men he had known in a life past.

“I'm sorry?”

“I … made a mistake and Moran saw. Now he has her.”

His words rung in the other threes ears for what seemed like an eternity, only broken when Lestrade let out a hushed 'fuck' and John jumped to his feet.

“Sherlock, are you sure- I know you think you are- but really seriously sure?”

The Consulting Detectives eyes stayed trained on the floor as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tape recorder. He placed it on the table and pressed play without a single word.

The sound of static played for a stretched out moment before a cracked voice sounded through the speaker, thick with an American accent twisted with something indescribable. John felt his stomach turn.

“Her strong enchantments failing,  
Her towers of fear in wreck,  
Her limbecks dried of poisons  
And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness  
Begins to shrill and cry,  
"O young man, O my slayer,  
Tomorrow you shall die."

O Queen of air and darkness,  
I think 'tis truth you say,  
And I shall die tomorrow;

...

But you will die to-day.”

Sherlock covered his ears. And then the screaming started.

Molly's gurgling, desperate screams. 

xxx

One Year ago

Molly Hooper was not Irene Adler, not in any way. She seemed small and shy, when everything about Irene was large and bold and oh so Scarlet. Molly saw things better when she was touching and feeling and doing, while Irene used those same things to distract those who she needed too. Molly Hooper felt confident with a scalpel in her hand, Irene with a whip. Molly was kind where Irene was cutting, soft where she was sharp.

But Dr Molly Hooper was more than these things, more than Irene Adler could see. She was a soft heart with tough skin that retracted around those she trusted, despite the ways some people cut her. She was smart, a genius when a certain Consulting Detective wasn't in the room, who had dedicated herself to solving the mysteries of people instead of raising them like her mother had wished. She knew the laws and the rules, but she also knew that rules were not often followed by those who dealt in poisons and gunpowder. She was a survivor, a woman who had been hurt and yet refused to hurt back.

Molly Hooper killed Sherlock Holmes.

Molly Hooper bought Irene Adler back to life.

…

Cold and Crimson and ornate furniture surrounded the young pathologist as she sat gazing out the window on to the river, hair in wet string ropes and clad only in a bath robe and fluffy bed socks. The Loire River, her mind supplied. Water and miles of green in all directions beyond stone walls. 

The room around her was the very embodiment of indulgence. High stone walls and hand carved ceilings, shining marble above a deep warm red adorned with golden patterns for trim. The furniture, including the arm chair she was roosting in, was pristine white upholstered and once more sporting golden adornments in the form of stitched birds and vines. She had the feeling the frames were actual ivory. The window before her was crystal in gilded frames, stretching almost the entire hight and width of the wall, and was frames by royal blue curtains and upholstered window seats. 

Lavish and rich and Molly was certain that she had been bought here illegally. Where ever 'here' was.

Two days ago a courier had turned up at her door, dressed expertly and expensively. Only he was not there to deliver something; he was there to pick her up for delivery. She was against the idea, it had Sherlock all over it and she was refusing to speak to him until he apologised for the last time she saw him. She wasn't able to wash all of the blood out of her carpet, and despite the obviously agents who came to change it, she was still ticked off.

Until the courier handed her a letter sealed in wax that broke her heart and sent her mind reeling across seas and through countries. It all sounded like a fairytale. A twisted fairytale.

So she had been taken to a small private plane, where a small woman engrossed in her phone had passed her a couple of pills. Apparently Molly was no meant to see where she was being taken, and although Molly knew the dangers she also knew that Sherlock needed her help. She had taken an oath and she would be damned before she broke it.

So for the second time in twenty-four hours Molly put her life on the line for Sherlock Holmes.

When she came too she was in a small cottage with an ancient looking man who supposedly spoke nothing but what Molly recognised as an African dialect. The young pathologist could tell from the cold bite that assaulted her face and shoulders that she was anywhere but Africa. The man lead her from his home (or what Molly assumed was his home) and into a thriving green landscape, rolling hills and forests of older than can be articulated trees. He stayed close to her side, speaking softly with a parental smile, and hand resting inside his jacket on a supposedly concealed 22. Revolver.

Molly began to feel like she had been dropped into a soppy adventure novel. 

The man bought her out of the forest to a large stone wall that Molly had not seen against the night time landscape. Expertly he located a door that was sunk in the wall and took her hand as he lead her beyond it into what she gathered was a corridor. He needed no light and for the first time since meeting him Molly felt unsafe. She squeezed his dark hand and he squeezed back.

She felt on edge, ready to sleep and yet yearning to run at the same time. She was meant to be average, ordinary and normal. She was not meant to be stuck in a novel like shady plot that she was sure was going to bite her sooner rather than later. Sherlock was going to pay for all of this.

Eventually (after about ten minutes of walking through the corridor and up two poorly lit staircases) the unlikely pair surfaced into … and other corridor. Narrow and manky. Something clicked in the back of Molly's mind, a memory from her days at school or from the old romance novels she used to consume rapidly.

“Servant corridors...”

Three more turns and a set of doors later and Molly was suddenly standing in a room so draped in velvet and coloured in deep reds that in the low light Molly felt like she was inside a heart. Well, metaphorical heart. She knew what the inside of a heart actually looked like.

The light was emanating from a small table lamp next to a giant four posted bed, sending a low yellow glow out through the room. And illuminating the small waif of a woman that lay beneath a mountain of thick quilts and blankets.

Molly rushed to her bedside, taking in the dark haired woman … and the table of medicines and tools that lay beside her. Dark hair and sunken features, dull eyes and scarlet lips. 

That was the first time she lay eyes on Irene Adler. 

In moments, and with the help of the (surprisingly) very high-class medical equipment, Molly determined that the sickly woman had been poisoned with Belladonna. No known cure, but Molly determined that either she had not ingested enough or it had been to deluded for a lethal amount of the Deadly Nightshade to be ingested. The poison would have to work its way out of her system on its own. Molly recalled her Grandmother singing a rhyme, too loud and comfortingly shrill, about Brandy and green tea. 

Through manic miming and a great deal of gesturing Molly managed to communicate this to the old man, who had been hovering near the bed the whole time. He gathered some very expensive looking alcohol and sat down on the bed to feed it to the now semi conscious woman, with tender hands and uttered words. Molly felt like and intruder on the tender scene, and almost jumped out of her skin when a small woman, just as old and non-english speaking as the man, tapped on her shoulder and lead her from the room to an attached identical one; equipped with a bed and pyjamas (ones identical to those she had left behind in her flat). She was left alone in the large room, in an unknown building, in an unknown country, still with no idea where Sherlock Holmes was. But she was to tired to be pissed off.

…

That had all transpired five hours ago, and Molly was still in the dark. She had only been able to speak to the old man and woman, short garble and gibberish sentences that lead nowhere. She had showered, napped and now was sunning herself, like Toby did in the windows of her flat.

Still no Sherlock. No answers. Just stillness and a cup of generously sugared tea.

I am going to kill that man … when I find him.

Molly, sunned up and stewing in her own thoughts, did not hear the foot falls behind her or notice another presence in the room until a slender figure dropped down into the arm chair across from her.

“He told me I would find you here. He may be a horrendous host, but he is very rarely wrong, I find.”

Molly jumped slightly and fixed her gaze on the other woman with the viper lips and purring voice. 

Irene Adler, the woman who was not on her slab so many months ago. Who was not the woman that Sherlock could recognise from her- … not her face. 

Out of her bed she looked much more imposing and … dangerous. She was taller than Molly was, and with her dark hair falling in expert and effortless curls around her face, she looked like she had been born from a renaissance portrait. Cream coloured skin, endless eyes, and a smile that conveyed nothing. She looked at Molly as though she would eat her up and tease her with secrets at the same time, worldly and sensual by nature. Even if she was dressed in a pair of pink cloud covered pyjamas.

Molly's pink cloud covered pyjamas.

“Ms Adler,” Molly finally spoke,“I would not think you were ready to be out of bed. Belladonna is no little poison.”

The other woman smiled like a Cheshire Cat.

“So you know who I am?”

Molly bit her lip and wonder exactly what kind of game she was being drawn into.

“I know your measurements. I did your autopsy.”

“Oh, Ms Hooper, you know how to win a woman’s heart.”

“Doctor.”

“Hmm?”

“Doctor Hooper. Not Miss.”

“Oh, I-”

“-I have spent the better part of my life around Sherlock Holmes, and you will have to do so much more than that to get a rise out of me Ms Adler.”

Molly punctuated her statement with the calmest smile she could conjure. She may not have the mind of the Consulting Detective, but she was a genius in her own right. She would not let this woman have power over her.

Irene smiled.

“I was wrong, wasn't I?”

Molly squinted.

But what ever the Woman had been asking seemed to be for herself because she continued on as though she had never spoken, leaning forwards in the expensive arm chair and – hello, showing Molly more of herself than she had anticipated seeing of the Woman. Unconsciously the smaller woman wrapped her dressing grown tighter around her body.

“I find it odd, Dr Hooper, that you have yet to seek out our mutual friend. I was under the impression that you were … eager to see him once more.”

“Yes, I do want to see Sherlock, Ms Adler,” Molly spoke with genuine kindness lacing her voice, “but my priority is first and foremost to my patient. I wanted to be close, should you need help.”

Irene cocked her head but leant back all the same. She seemed to be sizing Molly up in a way, her eyes slow and calculating. Molly vaguely wondered if she was taking her measurements.

“I must thank you for all you have done for me Molly,” the former dominatrix announced, voice void of all its play as she avoided meeting the other woman’s gaze, “My parents will be forever grateful as well. I had doubted you would come.”

Molly could not keep in her laugh, and the noise seemed to shock Irene from whatever reprieve or sector of her mind she had been dwelling in.

“Stupidly and since- well always, I have trusted that man,” she chuckled out, “Despite everything, all the things he has done, I trust him. And I know that he only asks for help, honest to god help, when he is backed against a wall.”

Molly sobered and when she spoke again he voice was softer. Irene looked on, entrancement held back behind a glamoured wall built years before.

“... And I took an oath. I swore to help those in need of help. And I have found that recently … when Sherlock has needed my help it is in a do or die situation.”

“And you would rather do all you have, no matter the cost that has come upon you, than see him die?”

Molly nodded, eyes flicking outside to the morning lit world.

“And if you die?”

Irene watched as the younger pathologist drew her bottom lip into her mouth. Not out of nerves, or hesitation. She did it to hold back, to stop her emotions. Irene distantly wondered how long it took for Sherlock to create this in her … and whether he knew he had? 

She did not answer, not with her words, but Irene got what she was after all the same.

Without another word The Woman jumped into a very articulate speech on where they were. She took particular delight in Molly's reaction when she pieced together that they were indeed; squatting in the second most famous Chateau in all of France, that has been closed for renovations after a particular phone call from inside the British government.

She could not keep the throaty chuckle from escaping.

The two of them sat in silence for some time, recharging in the sun before Irene broke with-

“He is in the up stairs Music Room. First door up the second staircase. Cant miss it.”

The young pathologist, predictably, stood to take her leave in favour of seeking out the Detective. Irene did not, however predict that she would stop when standing and say-

“Find me if you need anything else. And … Call me Molly.”

As she skittered from the room Irene purred. The young Doctor was more than she would seem. The Woman smiled.

“Oh Dr Hooper. I would love to just eat you up.”

…

 

Molly did find him in the music room, bathed in sunlight and sitting by the window while he strummed and plucked at a violin. He looked like an angel, too bright eyes angles and with the sun creating a halo in his hair. A fallen angel.

The room was huge; cream tiles trimmed in gold, walls in a soft blue adorned with white flure'de le's, and a massive grand piano firmly placed over to the side of the room, begging to be played. She wondered if she would still recall how.

With pattering steps Molly moved across the great open floor and placed herself across from the infuriating 'dead' man, watching as his glazed eyes stared out at the sprawling French landscape. Gazing, but not seeing. 

She sighed.

“You really know how to treat a girl, Sherlock.”

She was too tired, and too curious, to be nervous or frustrated. Not to mention how she had had Sherlock's blood on her hands too many times over the last few months for her to be made nervous by his mere presence. Most of the time.

She lay her head against the sun warmed glass, closed her eyes, and waited for Sherlock to come back to earth. She let herself feel the sun on her skin, follow the red heat pattern behind her eye lids, feel warm and safe for just a moment.

“She likes you.”

Molly did not jump … much. Opening her eyes she saw that Sherlock had pulled himself from his mind and was now gazing at her, a small vaguely condescending smile on his face.

“Huh?”

He rolled his eyes.

“The Woman, Irene Alder. She asked me what you liked.”

Molly could tell from his inflection that that phrase meant more than what he was saying, but she was too sleepy and to warm to ask. 

She sat up slowly, resting her head on her hugged close knees.

“I was angry before. Angry at all this cloak and dagger, ripped from a soppy romance/adventure novel, stuff. But now I am just curious. Why has Sherlock Holmes bought me, a simple pathologist, too the second most famous Chateau in all of France to cure a woman- the Woman- who should be dead of an incurable yet dilute-able poison? Do they have no pathologists in France?”

Sherlock's smile changed, eyes narrowing.

“Obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Come now, Molly. We both know that you are of adequate intelligence to deduct-”

“I am also sleepy, Sherlock.”

He frowned.

“Your Grandmother, obviously.”

Molly blinked. Her grandmother had been a house wife, a simple woman living in a tiny home in a tiny village. She was a baker, a gardener - … and a healer. Some people in the Village had accused her of being a Witch at one point. She had had a marvellous knowledge of plants, and she had used that knowledge to provide an alternative health care to her neighbours. She helped a ton of people over her life. She would have known about all kinds of poisons a-... and she had left Molly her medical diary... which she had only read once three years ago. 

Bloody Sherlock.

“Ah,” She exhaled.

Sherlock hummed.

“For a second I had thought you missed me,” She giggled out from the pressure of her nervous nature. It was the wrong thing to say.

Sherlock's face closed off then, smile and laugh chased from his mouth and eyes. He moved forwards slowly hesitant and … she would say scared, but this was Sherlock. He moved slowly, head down so she could not see his face, and Molly held her breath.

His hand reached out slowly, long musicians fingers reaching out and landing on her exposed wrist. She twisted her arm to offer it too him, and his hand slid up under the sleeve of her robe. Goose-flesh trailed on his wake as his too warm hand stopped and settled on her elbow.

His message was instantaneous, but he drove it home with his eyes as he turned his face up to her. She was suddenly inundated with images; rain over a red brick town, red sweaters, ruined shoes, dusty violins, gutters … and needles. Oh god the needles. Hospitals, black suits and government cars, country retreats and so many needles.

Her hand shot out and gripped his arm, as she watched a single word flash bright across his features. She knew. His worst kept secret was her best.

“Okay,” Molly pledged, her voice heavy and filled with more than either of them had ever been able to say to each other, “Okay … for as long as you will have me...I will stay.”

He hadn't smiled. But he would. She swore he would smile again.

xxx

The three of them left John Watson's flat as quickly as possible after they heard the recording, Mary having split from them to go too Mrs Hudson (so as to double the Mycroft employed guards). She had theorised that at least some of the 'guards' would follow her to the Landlady's flat, thus doubling the aging woman's security. Mary, who was full of a kind of passion that was intimidating and a wit that could slash a man to bits in seconds. Sherlock made a mental note to keep an eye on her. He always missed something.

They were frantic- well John and Lestrade were frantic, Sherlock was hidden by his familiar emotionless demeanour- in their hurry to get to The Yard. Sherlock needed facilities, he needed everything he could get his hands on to help get Molly back safely. John wondered exactly how his network had suffered while he was setting fire to Moriarty's web.

The Yard looked as it always had; corporate and clear. Easy to see through like the people who inhabited it. Sherlock's steps did not falter or wain as he walked through the front doors of The Yard, he didn't stop or notice when people stared or yelled or pointed at him, called out and yelled. He was focused and nothing else mattered.

Within moments the three of them were on the upper-levels, striding towards Lestrade's office with stony faces and barely concealed gusts of breath. Of course, predictably, this was when Sherlock's presence caused a real stir.

Donovan and Anderson had been waiting outside Lestrade's office in the coffee era when they caught sight of the dead man. Anderson shot from his chair, coffee flying on to the floor with an outraged cry from the female officer. His face was ash white as he gazed as Sherlock, mouth forming words that made no appearance. Sherlock smirked.

“Wonderful to see you haven't changed Anderson. Articulate as always.”

John laughed and Lestrade coughed as Anderson's face flooded with colour. He made move towards Lestrade, but Sally moved first. She locked her eyes to Sherlock as she moved slowly around the table to stand before him, jaw set and face unreadable. She looked him up and down slowly and then they all watched as the tension left her body with a sigh.

“You're not dead then.”

“No.”

“You back for good?”  
“Yes.”

“And something is happening, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“How can I help?”

Sherlock locked gaze with her and nodded, reading something the others would most likely not see in the woman’s eyes. Without a word he flicked his head to the next room, sweeping out and expecting them all to follow. As John trailed behind his friend he swore he heard Sally whisper “Freak” with a small, contented grin. 

“We have limited time and all the governments resources,” he spoke in his deep baritone as he rounded the conference table and lay the contents of his pockets upon its top, “Sebastian Moran, a killer and Moriarty's right hand is hiding somewhere in London and we need to find him.”

Sally stood next to John gazing down at the tape recorder and scrunched photograph of a man with close shaved blonde hair and classical features.

“Do we have a time limit, perimeters?”

“Nothing has been set yet-” Lestrade commanded, moving to spread numerous maps on the table, more to have something to do and feel less helpless than anything else. 

“- And he wont. He wants to take her from me, to pull her apart piece by piece … he wants to understand her at the same time he is hurting her.”

“Who!” Anderson yelled indignantly.

Sherlock curled closer in on himself eyes focused so intently on the recorder before him, mouth a hard line and shoulders tense. He was holding himself back, a sight John never thought he would ever see. He placed his hand on his friends shoulder.

Sherlock sighed, reaching into his pocket and drawing out another, more well kept photograph. When he spoke it was full of shame and humility, two emotions never associated with the previously dead detective.

“...Molly.”

The photo was small, wallet sized and showed the pathologist smiling brightly up at them all. She was lit by a brilliant yellow sunlight and perched next to an ornate train window. She looked happy and tired, but so much brighter than she had been at the Funeral. John had feared for her then, but now he felt pure and utter terror for her. All other things could wait.

Sally picked up the photo delicately, watching as Sherlock’s eyes followed it.

“Dr Hooper … Fuck.”

Anderson had to sit down, head swimming with too much information. Just moments before his biggest worry had been his pending divorce. It all seemed so meaningless now.

“That is from the last time I saw her,” Sherlock spoke lowly, voice demanding all the attention they had to offer, “I had been weak, I was slipping. Molly has already seen me at my worst, and I needed her to pull me from it again. For the last year she has been with me, I had thought without the knowledge of Moran or his snakes. But now ...”

“Sherlock,” John spoke first, in a brisk tone he knew Sherlock would respond to, “Where was she taken from.”

“India … she had just convinced me to return home. She wanted me to see how everything had changed … and how it hadn't.”

Lestrade cleared his throat eyes down cast. Molly Hooper, small and placid as she had been, had an infinite kindness and patience that drew people in. Greg knew he would die for her, just as he would for all the others in the room, but now he was being confronted with a side of Molly he had yet to see. Molly Hooper was willing to give up all she had to save Sherlock and protect them all from untimely deaths, she had risked all to follow Sherlock around the globe and keep him from his demons, and she had done it all with a silent smile. Greg found himself wondering how he had missed exactly how fearless she truly was.

He would find out. She wasn't dead, and he swore he wasn't gonna let her die at the hands of a monster like Moran.

“Okay!” He announced, hands clapping loudly together, “Where do we start?”

Sherlock's head sunk lower.

“He will be monitoring us all by now, his spies watching us.”

“Sherlock,” John commanded, catching the man’s eyes “What do we need to do.”

The Consulting Detective smirked, standing to his full height and straightening his jacket.

“My dear Watson, what we need to do is simple.”

“What?”

“We need to resurrect me … and we need Kitty Riley to do it.”

xxx

Six Months before

Budapest

Molly quickly figured out that Sherlock wanted her to come along with him for a very specific purpose. She wasn't trotting after him all around the globe to be his just his pathologist or his friend. She wasn't there to be a friend in arms or a nurse. Or a lover.

She was an ideal. Something for him to come back to.

She was kept away from the fighting and the war, in hotel rooms and apartments in small towns miles from his objective. He didn't speak to her about it but she knew it was to keep her not only safe, but to keep her from seeing the part of him that was all angelic fury and harsh light. It was selfish of him, she knew this, to keep her as a home base and not as a blood stained equal. But she also knew without her to patch him up and nurse him he would turn to street corners and holy arms to feel stable again.

She was his guide and his reminder of home. And as long as Sherlock continued to come back to her she didn't much mind. 

But this was different.

Sherlock had bought her to Hungry and then Budapest almost five days ago, putting her up in an expensive feeling Penthouse Sweet in a five star hotel. He has been course and cold, so much like the Sherlock of before the fall, and had told her in no uncertain terms to only open the door for him and shoot anyone else. Even now the revolver he had bought her felt like it had a tangible sinister presence from where it sat on the mantel. 

She had not seen him after he had left, leaving her at the door after a long terrifying silence where he did nothing but clasp her hands and bring them to his forehead. In a sweep of coat and the click of the lock she was alone. But it was different from the last times. No calls, no texts or notes under the door. Nothing.

And Molly was frightened. 

It had been raining non-stop for five days, lightning and thunder sounding ominously and loud sometimes, and gurgling far off the rest of the time. Sherlock was out in that.

He never went more than two days with out contact, usually in the form of a single word text like; 'Safe' or 'Pack' or 'Soon'. Never had he bee completely silent, he had always found a way to contact her.

Molly found herself pacing back and forth in the spacious lounge area of the Sweet, too big complimentary pyjama pants swishing around her at every turn and clashing with the bright yellow of her new 'Hard Rock Cafe' T-shirt. Her hands twisted together over and over again as she moved and chewed a new hole in her lips.

“He has to be fine,” She spoke aloud, “He is Sherlock. He is always fine.”

No he's not. You have seen him when he is 'not fine'.

“That was different though, right? He was up against Moriarty, everyone's lives were in danger.”

Now he is tracking Moriarty's generals to make sure the threats against everyone back home go away permanently.  
“I mustn’t over react. He would tell me I was being stupid.”

No he wouldn't. You have evidence.

“I … I don't know what to do...”

Molly's eyes flicked to the coffee table where a small black burner phone lay. A gift from Sherlock's strange brother, a way of making sure she always had a way home. 

Home. Home where John was limping along slowly towards being okay, towards having a stable relationship for the first time in god knows how long. Home where Greg was struggling to keep the respect and acclaim he had had, all the while mourning a not so dead man who he saw as a son. Home where Mrs Hudson still refused to take on any new tenants, where she spent days on end alone clutching his violin. Home that was behind them, too good and too unstable for them to go back to yet. Home which she had left behind to follow a dead man and keep him from his demons.

Home was the objective of his all. 

“Oh, Sod it all.”

Molly flew to the phone, fingers finding the autodial instantly as her breath came in frigid pants. Sherlock could hate her all he liked for this, as long as he lived and hated her for years to come.

The dialling came to a halt and a sickly calm voice sounded steadily over the line.

“Dr Hooper, how is Hungry this time of year?”

Molly felt a rush of feeling go through her as she imagined how Sherlock would react to this. Would he feel betrayed? Would he be angered? Or would he understand?

“M-Mr Holmes … I need your help.”

…

The rain may have seemed ominous and ghostly on its pitch black slate from the inside of her safe, dry Hotel room, but it was absolutely petrifying to be running around in the middle of it. Her feet beat heavily against the pavement, splashing and slapping dulled under the sounds of her heavy breathing and the snapping flaps of her coat. Well technically it was his coat, but that hardly mattered.

Mycroft had been abrupt and certain when he spoke to her over the phone, commanding her to get out of the Hotel and look for his brother. He sounded flustered, hissing to someone in the background and telling her his 'men' would be delayed because of the storm. She had the best chance of finding his brother. 

Even though she knew nothing about Budapest. She didn't speak the language. And most of all only had a few of Sherlock's cryptic mutterings as clues. Fantastic.

Her breath puffed out as she ran jerkily, not used to having to run. Especially since she could feel eyes on her and Sherlock had long ago told her to trust that feeling. Her stomach had twisted in so many knots from all of the stress Molly was certain she would need stomach surgery.

Car horns blared in the dark as she sprinted across a busy street, following the natural slope of the city down into its centre. He had said he was going to be up somewhere high, she was certain, to get a better look at a lower target. Or had it been the other way around?

“No, don't doubt. Not now.” She hissed.

She rounded a corner and came to a crashing halt in front of a high brick wall behind an obviously closed shop. Her muscles were screaming like never before, and he blood was so loud it was deafening. No cabs no buses no trains, Mycroft had stressed. That's what The Spiders men would be expecting from her.

“Come one Molly,” She whispered as her breath became Dragons smoke in the air, “Just a few more blocks … just a few.”

It was more than a few.

Mycroft had listened to her ramblings with the patience of a Kindergarten Teacher, correcting her grammar here and there, and sifting out the important information from the garble. He told her in ice cold words that the highest point in the city was the Hungarian Parliament Building.

“But why? Why there?”

Now her blood was slowing down and her brain was defogging Molly let herself think. The Parliament building would be significant yes, but Sherlock had assured her the wouldn't be dealing with politicians again, not after what happened in St Petersberg. So why? He was cornering a sniper, an assassin.

Wasn't he?

But that would have been days ago. A minimum of two for observance, though Mycroft's men had already done that in anticipation for the younger Holmes. It had been five days. 

Sherlock wouldn't be at the scene. He would be hiding, healing and licking his wounds.

“Oh, Margaret, you are slow.” She laughed at herself. Then next time she saw Mycroft Holmes she was going to throttle him for being so vague and assuming all the time. And for hating Phone conversations it would seem.

She took off again, body slow to reach her previous speed as her muscles began to stiffen and loosen again. She was going to be in such pain later, but that hardly mattered. She had to get Sherlock safe. 

For John, and Greg, and Mrs Hudson and the life he deserved for himself. For Home.

She rounded several more corners and angered even more motorists before the Hungarian Parliament Building came into veiw, long and ornate and oh so old from its perch next to the river Danube. Molly may had spent some time learning about the strange old city she had been dropped into, when she wasn't worrying herself sick.

“Oh god,” She gasped as a sudden and morbid thought washed over her, “No. Not the river.”

She ran harder, the wind and rain picking up around her as though to keep her from her mission. She gritted her teeth and pushed her legs, whole body screaming as she got closer and closer to the river.

Rounding the side of the Parliament Building that was lit up like a building, Molly came to a sudden stop. It was to dark. He wouldn't stray far would he? if he was hurt he would want to be found … by the right people.

Feeling herself panic Molly gave in and she screamed.

“Sherlock!”

Rain. Darkness. Silence.

She moved closer to the rivers edge peering in every direction she could, panic taking over all her other senses.

“Oh god, Sherlock please.”

She placed her head in her hands. 

Rain.

Darkness.

A noise. A movement.

Her head whipped around, finding the building next to her and seeing the brilliant light upon it flicker for a second and then again three seconds later. The movement was followed by a cough, a rattling splattering cough. 

“Oh thank you God.”

Running to the guard fence she found the Consulting Detective hidden away in an ornately designed niche, shielded from the bulk of the rain and within swiping distance of the spotlight. He was covered in blood stains and Molly found herself praying it was someone else’s.

With an uttered apology she threw his expensive long coat, not at all like the one he had frequented before the Fall, and used its cushioning to propel herself over the fence. Within moments she was at the fallen man's side, cradling him close and keeping the rain off him as much as she could manage. 

Sherlock groaned, his eyes fighting to open as she checked over his vital signs. 

“Oh, thank god.”

“Please don't.”

Molly chuckled, running a hand through his hair soothingly. His voice was cracked and broken.

“Are we safe?”

The man in her lap chuckled brokenly.

“We is gone. The river made sure of that.”

The doctor grimaced and held him closer. He squinted up at her.

“You're mad.”

Molly couldn't hold back the laugh then, long and loud and maniacal. Her entire body was screaming and she still felt moments away from her heart giving out after pumping so hard.

“I really should be, shouldn't I?” she laughed out, “No, Sherlock Holmes I am not mad at you.”

He was frowning up at her, usually vibrant eyes duller than they should be. He moved his arms closer to her, warming his death cold hands against the skin of her stomach. When he spoke it was muffled by her jumper and came in a whisper.

“...You should.”

She gripped his hair.

“Never.”

xxx

They preformed Media History in two hours. 

Lestrade abused his power to locate Kitty Riley, who had been living the high-life as editor for a high profile News Paper/Blog since she broke the 'Sherlock Holmes Scandal'. Needless to say the apparition of the dead Detective in her office shocked her... and half the building when her scream had finished resonating. After several minutes and a passive aggressive persuasion technique, the reporter was convinced to arrange a live to air announcement of Sherlock's living status, broadcast all across the city on every station at the exact same time.

Within the hour Sherlock was on the television, standing tall next to John as he stared down the camera. His eyes were cold and his mouth was set as reporters buzzed and yelled in the constantly flashing press room. He was dressed as he had been before the fall, lean tailored suit over dress shoes and unkempt hair. John couldn't hold his grin back at the sight.

With grace and silence Sherlock stood to the podium, eyes never leaving as he spoke to the camera in front of him. His voice was low and dark and so full of utter malice the room went silent as he spoke only three sentences;

“Check...I have made my move, Snake. Make yours. Be smart … and maybe I will not kill you for touching her...Maybe.”

And he turned from the audience, shoes clicking as he left the room.

And he left.

And the snake changed the playing board.

…

On their return to the Yard they were greeted by a scene of chaos. People were steaming everywhere, papers and tablets in their arms as they rushed to and from the Round Table Room (John's clever name). 

Lestrade, Sally and Anderson were drawing frantically on rolled out city map, red marker and stickers adorning uncountable locations. Chaos. 

“He has made him move then?” John asked, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

“Obvious, John.”

John scoffed, turning to the older detective.

Greg sighed.

“Three minutes after you had your little 'tea party' we got a boy from the street come up to the front desk,” Sally spoke for her boss, “He gave us this.”

With a slap she tossed an evidence bag on the table. John felt his knee throb.

A long clump of soft brown hair, soaked in blood, was wrapped around another tape recorder. They all held in a breath as the Consulting Detective stepped forwards, hands reaching out to grip the bag and hold it to his eyes.

“Its Molly's.”

“We haven't gotten the tests-”

“Don't bother. This is hers.”

John but his tongue. Sherlock didn't need his curiosity right now.

He placed the bag down slowly, eyes refusing to meet another’s.

“And the tape.”

“It's … It's-” Sally tried.

“- It's just screaming, mate.” Greg cut in with watered eyes, “Ten bloody minutes of screaming.” 

His breath seemed to leave him then. They watched as the one of the strongest men any of them had ever met backed up and sat gingerly in an ugly, police regulation, arm chair. His eyes, his hands, his face, all stayed still. He had stopped.

“Sherlock-”

And 

then 

he 

smiled.

Bright and large, face splitting in two as he shot from his chair and let out a long steam of hysterical laughter, eyes ablaze and he moved without thought.

“Oh, he has lost it,” Anderson singsonged before Lestrade's hand connected with the back of his head.

“Sherlock,” John attempted to soothe, “Mate, I know you aren't very okay right now, but you need to calm down-”

He only laughed harder.

“Don't you see?” he all but shouted, “Don’t you see what he has done?”

Silence.

Sherlock sobered slightly, without the grin leaving his face.

“No … I don’t suppose you do.”

“Alright, no need to-”

“Moriarty was a spider.” Sherlock spoke to the room, hands tearing open the evidence bag to hold the recorder in his hand, “But Moran, he is nothing like his boss. Moriarty was in control of everything, smooth and manipulative and clever. Moran, he is smart, but he is also a Soldier-”

“Hang on-”

“- he is a Soldier, a man who answers to a chain of command, not an architect. He is a violent killer, a man of tools. He isn't capable of the same game as Moriarty played. And now he has made a huge mistake.”

“What?” John whispered, once again falling into the hypnosis that Sherlock generated.

The Genius pressed play on the tape recorder, letting Molly's ear splitting screams fill the room. John lowered his head, feeling anger and shame wash over him as he heard- … and then he listened. 

“Her … her screams are different.”

The screaming stopped and Sherlock chuckled.

“The Snake thought we wouldn't notice. He has made Molly Hooper angry.”

Lestrade's mind whirred, face slowly sliding into a grin as he stared from the Consulting Detective to the bloodied bag on the table.

“Well fuck me.”

“Greg!”

“She has hasn't she?” Lestrade laughed out, striding closer to Sherlock, “Tell me she has?”

Anderson let out a wail of anguish, hands slamming on the table.

“Someone better explain to me what exactly is happening right now or I will-”

“Calm down Anderson, there will be time for you to be a buffoon later.”

Anderson went red, and John calmly asked for an explanation before the situation between the two men worsened. 

“It is a little known fact that the British Government was actually competent during the Cold War.” Sherlock drawled eyes rolling at Johns motions to continue and hurry up, “Complex codes, coded messages and the likes were utilised and almost perfected. Almost, th-”

“Sherlock.”

He glared at his shorter best-friend.

“Molly Hooper's father worked for my Grandfather. He was a, what's the term? … Spook.”

“...Damn.” Sally breathed a smile spreading across her face as she caught on to where the conversation was going.

“And in true Spook mentality, he was also paranoid. Combine that with his devotion to his daughter and insufficient funds to give her a High Education and we get the last woman on earth you want to take hostage. He trained her to never be a victim, if you will.”

John sighed, tired clouds hanging behind his eyes.

“So?”

“So, John, she is screaming in code.”

The 'Mother Fucker' John breathed out, grin splitting his face, was not expected. But it seemed to fit. 

...

But things didn't get better for long.

From the coded message Molly managed to convey she was near the sea, and it was dark. Not much. But when they combined that with the red brick dust in the blood and the dead mosquitoes carrying foreign spoors, they managed to whittle their options down.

A dock side factory, condemned last year because of the crumbling walls and the (yet to be confirmed hazardous) Red Mould. Combine that with its numerous rooms and leaks creating a perfect environment for mosquitoes. They had their location.

And they were on the move before a plan could be made or conveyed. 

They were mad and so so tired of letting Criminal's run how they lived their lives. They were clouded. And it would hurt them.

…

Moran was waiting for them, not the other way around. They got no upper hand or 'Jump' on the Sniper. 

He was standing in the middle of the crumbling factor floor, with a 3.75 Magnum Revolver pressed against her neck as he held her back against his chest. Molly looked a wreck, clothes rumpled, hair missing chunks and body over missing a familiar softness associated with Molly. 

Back up hadn't been called long ago. They were on their own.

“Well, If it isn't the Great Detective,” Moran drawled, “I had thought to see your sooner. Lost your touch?”

Sherlock wasn't even looking at Moran, John saw. His cold blue eyes were set on Molly, who was staring just intently back at him with watering brown eyes. Their gaze didn't slip, nor move. They were speaking without words, and John felt a pang as he wondered when exactly his friend had let the other Doctor in enough to establish such a connection.

“Molly,” Sherlock spoke in his deep baritone, “How are things?”

“Sherlo-”

She let out a groan as Moran pulled his arm tight across her, pushing her insides together and restricting her breathing.

“Oh no, Holmes,” The mad soldier hissed, “This little one is none of your concern.”

“How do you suppose?” he took a slow step forwards, eyes still not holding Moran.

“ … Would you let her be taken if you truly cared?”

John watched as a fist curled behind Sherlock's back and just as quickly disappeared. He prayed Moran didn't notice, and clutched his pistol tighter.

“I will only offer this once, Sebastian,” The detective spoke evenly and so calmly Lestrade felt his stomach turn, they must be in trouble, “Let Molly go, and I will let you go. I will not follow you, I will not hunt you, if you let her leave with me.”

The other two men had to hold back their cries of indignation, as much as they wanted Moran to be taken down they wanted Molly back more. They were surprised Sherlock was revealing such a thing to the madman, though.

The gun pressed tighter to Molly's neck, and Moran giggled.

“You don't understand Holmes. I don't plan in letting my new toy go. Not until its broken.”

She whimpered. 

“Moran-”

“I-Im sorry!” Molly shouted over the blood that John knew would be rushing though her ears, as it had in his a life time ago in a long past country.

“Molly-!”

“I-I am sorry … that h-he didn't love you.”

Moran twisted the gun in her flesh harshly causing her to squeak. His face twisted inhumanly in his rage. John was almost convinced his eyes flashed red.

He laughed bitterly in his throat, mouth and flashing teeth so close to the small woman's ear.

“And what would you, you pathetic little mouse, know of his heart?”

“I know he wanted me to see it. To know it. I know... he wanted me.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and John watched as anger flashed across his face. He did not know who to fear more; Sherlock's avenging angle, the beastly Moran, or Molly who seemed to be doing all she could to get the Snake angrier. He and Lestrade almost seemed like background characters, watching on in horror as Molly guided a man in to a rage.

“He could have gotten to Sherlock any number of ways Sebastian,” Molly continued a panicked manic light shining from behind her eyes, “He could have gone anyway, gotten to Sherlock in so many ways that were so much easier. He chose me. He wanted me... and you … will never know why...”

What followed next would haunt John Watson and Greg Lestrade to their dying day. 

Before another breath could be taken Moran fired, followed by Molly's scream as a bullet tore through her leg. Sherlock moved to run at them, but he was cut off by another bullet landing this time in the paver before him.

“Not another step Mr Holmes!” the madman scream, his voice losing all the coolness it had possessed before Molly had spoke.

“Don't you dare hurt him..” Molly groaned her face stained with tears as scarlet ran down her leg in lazy waves.

“Shut up, you insignificant little bitch!”

Molly fought in his hold, forcing Moran's gun lower. With every move the blood on her leg came faster, and redder. Sherlock looked more desperate in that moment than John had ever seen him.

“ ...You have to know you will never win ...” Molly croaked, voice thick with tears as she became still and her eyes locked in front of her. Locked on Sherlock, “ … or are you truly so stupid that you can't recognise you are not going to leave this place in anything less than a body bag..?”

Moran sneered, “Haven't you been paying attention love? No one is going to get in here until I let them- and only the fatter Holmes will get me to do so,” he leaned closer to her, words coming out in a harsh carrying whisper, “No one will be safe until I am. But Oh, I have got something special planned for you sweetie, no one is gonna save you this time....”

Molly raised her chin at the, gaze drifting over the three men, before she gritted her teeth and raised her chin at Sherlock

“Who said I needed saving, sweetie.”

In Moran's confusion he did not see Molly move her hands from her sides, did not predict that she would bring the guns barrel to her left shoulder, did not know to stop himself from pulling the trigger.

In seconds they were down. John had never heard Sherlock yell Molly's name with such panic. It stung him somewhere deep inside.

There was so much blood.

…

The smell of a Hospital, burnt clean and sickly sweet antiseptic, was the kind of smell that could bring up strong memories in anyone. Bright, white and still with movement. All encompassed by the whir of machines.

They aren't a family technically, but in that waiting room surrounded by the most sickly sweet of smells, they sure felt like one. Mary and Mrs Hudson had arrived as soon as they could, with Sally and Anderson retrieving them, while the three men rushed behind the Ambulance that was Molly's salvation.

As soon as the gun shot went off the other police officers rushed into the abandoned building, with John and Lestrade jumping into action and chasing down Moran's fleeing henchmen, not that Sherlock noticed them. He was to busy trying to keep Molly's blood in her body.

Moran was dead. Molly had ended his life. And maybe her own as well.

For three hours the small group had sat in the waiting room. Three hours of waiting and hoping against hope that Molly's surgery would be the most successful surgery in the history of man. But, John shuddered as he thought, there was so much blood. Too much red.

And Sherlock, god Sherlock was terrifying. He had sat in the chair closest to the surgery entrance, slow and quiet. He didn't talk. He didn't move. He just sat and waited. 

“Should...” Mary finally broke the silence, “..should we be calling anyone? Her family?”

John frowned and felt his heart constrict.

“I ...I have no idea.”

They all looked at one another, clutching their cups of cold coffee and frowning. In all their time of knowing the small pathologist how could it be that they didn't know a thing about her family? 

Sherlock sighed, hand pinching the bridge of his nose as everyone’s eyes landed squarely on him. He look dishevelled, for Sherlock anyway, his curls unruly and his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow, exposing his pale skin and stark veins to the hash florescent lights.

“Molly, has no family,” He spoke low and disgruntled, “She was an only child, all her older relatives are either disconnected or deceased and her Father died some years ago.”

Lestrade squinted, “What about her Mother then?”

No one expected the consulting detective to laugh like he did. Loud and almost hysterically in contrast to the starkness around them. He turned his mirth filled eyes to the silver haired detective.

“I can promise you Lestrade; if that woman walks through those doors she will never be walking again.”

Humming of lights and machines filled around them. What could they possibly say to that?

The mindless humming of machines. The ticking of the florecent lights. Tapping.

Tapping.

“Oh god.” John breathed, recognition driving his hands to his face as a man in a well tailored suit rounded the corner to stand before the group.

“Not quite, John.” The older Holmes breathed as his beautiful assistant … or was it body guard, texted madly behind him while taking hold of her bosses umbrella.

The Doctor rolled his eyes at the older (… older?) man's words, shifting unconsciously closer to Mary beside him. Mary, lovely Mary, who leant over and whispered, 'is this the British government then?'.

'Anthea' snorted, and Mycroft's eyes squinted as he moved past them all to stand before his brother … and say absolutely nothing. The two brothers looked at each other, faces unmoving and not a word uttered to each other.

It was bloody weird to say the least.

Then Mycroft sighed.

“I recognise Dr Hooper's accomplishments, and the sacrifices she has made. They rival that of those made by her Father,” he spoke low and serious to the open room, “If circumstances were different she would be awarded a medal. But much is to be done before any kind of circumstances change brother, I am sure you are aware of this.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“Words.”

The older Holmes sighed once more and cast his gaze down ward. John thought he looked shamed, but he had learnt to trust nothing of Mycroft, not even his familiar devotions.

“Brother...” He turned to look at the other occupants of the waiting room, “I have acquired the top most surgeons in the field of trauma surgery to operate on Dr Hooper.”

Mrs Hudson gasped.

“Oh, Mycroft!” he exclaimed, reaching her hand across to clasp his, “Bless you, thank you.”

He smiled unsteadily and nodded.

“To lose … Molly as an ally in this war would be a great defeat on our side, Mrs Hudson. It was the least I could do.”

“War?” Lestrade asked and 'Anthea' rolled her eyes indecently behind him.

The older Holmes turned back to his brother.

“This dose not end with his body.”

Sherlock smirked and rolled his shoulders as he sat up straighter in his chair.

“When dose it ever?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“You are losing, Sherlock.”

“Losing?” he said, strong and clear and so like he used to sound, “You mistake me brother. Am I not already lost?”

Before Lestrade or John could snap and demand an explanation for the maddening conversation from the two brothers, a scrubbed up doctor pushed through the set of double doors and made a bee line for them. She was small, at least in comparison to the Holmes brothers who stood before her, and when she spoke it came with a clear Australian accent.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“I have news on Dr Hooper's condition … you may want to sit down.”

xxx

Molly grinned up at the man beside her, revelling in the sunlight and the impending journey before them. She felt light, hair down and clad in a bright red Sundress. Her bear feet were warm against the wooden platform beneath them.

Sherlock showed no obvious sighs of 'giddiness', but Molly knew he must be feeling it too. He also looked quite nice as well. White dress shirt with rolled to the elbow sleeves and an open collar, his usual dark slacks and his usual dress shoes. But his hair was darker again, and unruly from the breeze and he had new sunglasses that … well Molly appreciated their shape. A lot.

Realising she was staring Molly cast her gaze around her. They had arrived in India from New York a week ago, spending most of their time in New Deli. Three days ago though, Sherlock had taken Molly out of the city to the lushly green country side, offering no reason or explanation. 

But after they had arrived at where they were staying, an old Plantation House overlooking acres and acres of fields, gardens and mostly untouched wilderness. It was spectacular, full of sunlight and life. Sherlock mumbles something about it belonging to his family, but Molly was too caught up in the endless world around her. She was also fighting against the idea that it was the most romantic place anyone had ever taken her.

And it was hard to fight off those thoughts with the way Sherlock was acting. The former consulting detective was all but glued to her side, going where ever she went and sitting in what ever room she chose to be in. She was almost never out of his sight. And despite how much her mind was screaming at her she did not ask why, she could not ask why. She was afraid of the answer.

So for three days they stayed their. Molly basically lived in the garden, enjoying the sunshine and the breeze. She had spent her whole life in one city or the other, so the vibrant countryside around her was like a different world. And Sherlock seemed to be more content in simply enjoying the sun.

But on the third day Molly's silence broke. Sitting in the garden, under a huge tree and on ornate iron work furniture, she spoke to the silent man beside her. But not about the house, or the hunt or how scared he was making her. She didn't ask. She told.

“Sherlock … I think we have to go home.”

She would never forget how he sighed. How he sighed and handed her the invitation addressed to her from John. She had almost cried, only stopped by his openly emotional expression. She swallowed and placed a hand on his arm to draw him from his mind.

“That settles it then. We are going home.” 

And now they both stood, warm in the son on a Train platform with their few bags at their feet and an endless amount of people bustling about them. It was so much like London and yet so utterly different. It was all like a fairy-tale to the London girl.

Molly was drawn from her reprieve when a small boy knocked into her side in his rush to keep up with his sister. She stumbled slightly with an exclaimed 'Oh!', but was quickly pulled back. Pulled back by a hand clasping her own. Sherlock's hand.

He pulled her into a righted position … and didn't let go of her hand.

She looked up at the man she considered to be one of her best-friends, frown clear on her face so she wouldn't have to ask him anything out loud. He wasn't looking at her though, he was looking across the platform to the lush wilderness that lead to a farm not two miles away, they had passed it in all its manufactured glory on the way to the station. 

Molly sighed. Did he always have to be so difficult.

“Sh- … Dear, are you alright?” Molly asked, correcting herself at the last moment to protect Sherlock/s identity. They were already risking things, being so exposed as they were.

He turned his head down and too her, not looking at her face. Molly noticed he did this sometimes, didn't look people in the eye. She wondered if it was some symptom of what he had, or if he tired of how easy people were to read. She stepped minutely, hiding their hands in the fabric of her dress, hoping that in some way she could easy what ever was affecting him.

He sighed.

“I ...Just, please. I just need a moment.”

Molly sighed and leant her head against his shoulder. She distantly wondered if the man beside her was touch starved and in want of grounding. She closed her eyes and just let them be, quieting her mind in hope to bring him some peace for a moment.

She never expected him to lean his head atop hers and bury his face in her hair.  
“I- I um-”

He sighed again, long and slow, casting a breeze across her neck that made her shiver. Molly dare not move for fear of pulling him from where ever his mind had gone.

And if he muttered the words 'I am weak', the sound was pulled from her ears by the motor of the train, the hustle of people, and the feeling of unease that washed over her. She rubbed the back of her neck as they stepped onto the train, not noticing the man grinning down he barrel of a rifle across the tracks.

xxx

Time passed. They couldn't stop it.

It was getting to be too much, reporters and news teams were going over the line in attempt to get an interview or picture of the risen Sherlock Holmes. They were camped every where; outside the yard, all over Baker Street, outside Bart's. With each passing day they were all getting more and more desperate, hounding those close to Sherlock with no mercy. Soon, they all knew, it would go above annoying and become dangerous.

Not that Sherlock noticed. Not that Sherlock moved, in fact.

For four days Molly had been unconscious, with the doctors weaning her off of the medically coma on the third day. She wasn't awake, but she was stable. And Sherlock never left her side. It was rather unsettling.

John tried to get him to leave, to move around and get some air, but Sherlock refused. John wondered if it was concern for Molly keeping him there or fear of going back to Baker street. Or maybe, as Mary suggested, maybe the younger man had become so used to running and changing and manipulating that he needed a constant to ground him. Molly had been his constant on the run, and now without her Sherlock was stuck until she recovered. John wasn't sure he agreed, he liked to think Sherlock may have grown a heart and actually felt something for the pathologist, but then again John wasn't sure that was such a good thing either. 

So they waited, suspended. They all tried to spend time at the Hospital everyday, not wanting Molly to be alone when she finally woke up. The 'if' in their thinking constantly ignored and simultaneously feared.

And then, on a muggy Sunday, came a miracle.

…

Lestrade shifted awkwardly next to John radiating tension and frustration as they and Mary listened intently to the Doctor in front of them. Logically they new he was qualified, smart, and had Mollies best interests at heart. Illogically, and very strongly, they wanted to punch the arrogant wanker in the face.

He was speaking slow, slow and exaggerated, like he was speaking to a group of highschoolers. He also happened to be talking very negativity about Molly's condition. They knew that she had bee taken off of the sedatives and had yet to pull through to consciousness, and that with every passing day and hour her chance of pulling through minimised. None of that knowing meant that they were ready to think about the possibility of losing Molly. 

But they kept all of this to themselves, listening intently until the short and frumpy doctor turned on his heels and swaggered of down the hall. John rolled his eyes. Wanker, indeed.

Mary sighed.

“How long do you think we can keep going like this?”

“Better question is how long can he keep from hearing all of this?”

It had come as a shock to them all when they found out Sherlock was Molly's emergency contact. It was an even bigger shock to find out he had been for the last five years. Sherlock seemed to be taking the role in his stride. Molly was never alone, and no one entered the room without Sherlock verbally deducing and breaking down every little thing about them. They had appointed Lena, an older more grizzly nurse to the room, who made sure that Sherlock stayed in line when she was around. 

They didn't know if he respected or feared the older woman. Mrs Hudson was fond of her though, and god knows she needed a shoulder- a sturdy, unwavering shoulder- to cry on.

John shook his head, looking through the all glass wall at his Landlady and best-friend as they lazily played chess by Molly's beside. Sherlock was zoned out from what John could see, and he was still letting Mrs Hudson win.

“Something is going to have to happen soon,” John admitted, “If we don't do anything … I don't want to think...”

Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Times like this I wish I was a God fearing man.”

Breath in.

Breath out.

The called on coin is tossed.

And lands.

“Boys!”

The three of them jumped, hands clenching their chests at Mrs Hudson's yelp. They rushed to the door way in three long strides, only to step through and be blocked by the landlady's form. She was breathing raggedly, and a casting glance at the bed made their breathes catch as well.

“Damn me...” Lestrade said without noticing as a giant grin spread across Mary's face.

In the dim grey light filtering in through the rain splattered they all witnessed a miracle.

Molly Hooper's eyes were open, sluggish and unsynchronised as she took long slow breathes. Her head rolled to the side, and they all were in awe of the bright smile that took hold of her face as her eyes eventually focused on the man who was clutching her hand at her bedside. Sherlock's face remained impassive, but the way he gently cradled her hand in both of his detailed a different story.

The injured woman’s mouth moved, attempted to find words before she huffed in frustration. Instead she reached her hand out, the one opposite to her injury, shakily reaching for Sherlock. He met her in the middle, reaching out his own hand to meet hers. Her long skilled fingers found his pulse, pressing into his veins to feel his hearts beat. She laughed, whisper soft and rough sounding, but it was an honest to god laugh.

“I ...” She rasped out, playing unconsciously with Sherlock's hand, “I thou- ...dreaming.”

Sherlock smirked down at her.

“I am very much real, Molly.”

“We .. we were on a- .. a Train.”

“Indeed we were.”

She smiled softly.

“It was … warm.”

Molly looked away from Sherlock, eyes skittering around the room as her head wobbled in a way that would have been comical in any other situation. She clutched his arm closer.

“I- … He took-... He took me-”

“Molly.”

She looked back at him, a childlike frown cast on her face.

“I wasn't … strong.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Wrong.”

“..huh?”

“You were very much strong, Margaret Amelia Hooper. As you have always been.”

She blushed.

“Always?”

He rolled his eyes again.

“I was- .. I was nineteen...”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

Her face slackened.

“Dose ...John hate me?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Why on earth would John hate you.”

“I … I killed you.”

The man sighed.

“Dont be st- … John could never hate you, Molly.”

“My-”

“You 'killed' me to save me and countless others. You have done nothing to go against your precious oath.”

It took a moment, but eventually Molly recognised Sherlock's words and nodded slowly up at him.

Sherlock cast his gaze to the door, nodding at them all but not signalling for them to come closer. It would be better not to overwhelm her John knew that, but all he wanted to do was give into his alpha male need to protect and hold the small woman until she forgot all about pain and fear. Was Sherlock feeling the same thing?

“Am I … home?”

“Yes.”

“We are?”

“Yes.”

“Safe?”

“Yes. You made sure of that.”

Molly grinned, not comprehending just yet what that meant. She dislodged his hand fro hers and they all stared as she tugged on one of his off colour curls, giggling weakly as she did. Sherlock, in turn, didn't move or react. His eyes never left Molly's face.

“Where am I?”

“Safe.”

“Where?”

“With me and safe.”

“..okay.”

She dropped her hand once again, face distorting and twisting into a frown.

“Sherlock,” She whimpered out in a sound of utter pain, “It hurts.”

Movement filled the room. Mary and Lestrade rushing from the room to grab what ever doctor or nurse they could find as John guided the suddenly hysterical Mrs Hudson behind him and out of the room, before he rushed to Molly's side where Sherlock was already in action. His hands were blurs as he quickly rearranged her back on to the bed while she dug her and in to his arm like claws, all the while concious of the heart monitors frantic calls behind him.

It took John and Lestrade and an orderly to pull him from the room as the doctors filled it suddenly. His face was twisted as he tried to stay with a now convulsing Molly, repeating over and over again in various volumes, 'I have to stay, you idiots, I am all she's got!'.

As John Watson held his best friend back from doing something they would all regret, he silently panicked. If this was Sherlock now, what would he be like without Molly Hooper in the world.

 

xxx

 

1998

Molly pulled he red cardigan closer to her body as she walked through the streets in the appearing light. It was early, too early even for the slightly creeping in sun, but she needed to study for as long as she could in the Uni library before it got to lunch time. She was regretting accepting Allan's lunch date idea. She only knew him a little bit, and she wasn't all that comfortable with the way he stared. 

Molly huffed out a breath. She was being judgemental, which made her hypocritical. She hated being judged before people got to know her.

She tugged oh her recently cut hair self consciously as she crossed the street, feeling her butterfly clips pull pleasantly against her scalp. She had tried her best to look good, decked out in her favourite green tartan skater dress, frosted stockings and battered old brown Chuck's. And her knew bangles, which she also was regretting as they clinked loudly in the unpopulated space around her.

Molly sighed again. Today was going to be a long day and there was nothing she could do about it, she accepted and hitched her Jan-Sport backpack higher on her shoulder-

-and proceeded to nearly get taken down by a tramp.

Molly, being who she was raised to be, reached out her hand at the last moment and caught the falling man before he could pitch forwards and smash his face off on the footpath. He shook his head violently, whole body tipping from side to side before he focused his eyes on her.

Okay maybe not tramp.

The man was tall and pale, head topped by a mop of curls that hung in front of some pretty gorgeous blue eyes. At least she thought they were blue. A raggedy scarf hung from around his neck, and a heavy black coat hung from his shoulders over a loose grey t-shirt and a pair of scandalously tight jeans.

He also wasn't wearing shoes.

Oh dear.

“Um, Sir are you alright?” Molly asked quietly, attempting not to scare the man. His pupils were blown to hell, and with a panicked heart stutter Molly mentally plotted a root to the nearest hospital. She wondered if they would find track marks in his arms.

He was looking at her, focused and strange. Not in the way Allan did, more like she was a book than ... a piece of meant.

“Ah, so you agree then.”

Molly started at the sound of his voice, his deeply resonating baritone voice.

“Um- I'm sorry?”

“Allan. It was stupid of you to accept his offer. His is of course, as you suspected, mentally unhinged. I would go as far to say he is stalking you.”

“I-”

“You should alert the police and your room mates. Should move too, stalkers tend to be obnoxiously persistent.”

Molly took a deep breath, attempting to push down her fright.

“...are you stalking me?”

The man rolled his eyes.

“Don't be dull.”

Molly cast her gaze around, hoping someone else would come along and help her get the man to a hospital. 

“We need to get you some help.”

“Please,” he scoffed as he pulled himself from her grip and seemed to right himself, “I am-”

\- And promptly threw up on Molly's shoes.

“...Okay,” 

She let out a shuttered sigh and repeated over in her mind that she wanted to be a doctor. Though at the moment she couldn't remember why exactly. She wobbled and slipped her feet from the shoes, before pulling herself and the obviously high man away from his ... mess.

He made no attempt to apologise, he was probably to high to remember she was there, as she pulled him to lean up against the red brick building behind them. Molly took him in, watching as he shivered even in the warming air. Knowing she had an obligation to keep him safe, Molly pulled the cardigan from around her shoulders and curled it up around his head. 

“There we go. That should help a little,” she said in her best impression of a Nurse or Mother, she didn't have much experience with either, “Um.. is their anyone I can call to come get you? A sponsor or family doctor? Or would you like me to call an ambulance.”

He was quiet then, and Molly swore If he didn't answer soon she would just suck it up and march him two blocks up to the free clinic. But then he spoke.

“Don't bother … should be here soon.”

Molly frowned.

“I'm sorry, who?”

He rolled his eyes and in the same moment a black Limo pulled up next to them, splashing gutter water on to her already ruined shoes. Molly was not having the best of days. 

She watched warily as a woman, sleek and bottle blonde, stepped from the car on skyscraper heels and faced the pair of them. Molly took a deep breath, clutching the man's arm tighter. This didn't seem at all right.

“Mr Holmes, It's good to see you again.” The woman monotonously stated.

The man – Mr Holmes apparently- sneered.

“Riveting isn't it.”

The woman cast her eyes to Molly.

“I am afraid you will both have to come with me.”

Molly took a small step back, but the man at her side placed a hand between her shoulders. He looked at her, eyes still blown too wide and face too flushed, but god did he freeze her with his gaze.

“She isn't going to let us go. And you aren't wearing shoes.”

Molly bit her lip.

“I don't know you.”

He smirked.

“No. But you want to.”

She bit her lip harder. Not knowing if he had read her mind or not, she did know that she had to make sure he got medical attention and was safe before she left him.

Molly nodded. 

She had a feeling she was going to miss that date with Allan.

…

And that is how Molly Hooper, home town genius and catholic school prodigy, found herself in the most life changing moment of her life.

Though of course she didn't know that yet.

After a long car ride with Mr Holmes and the Blonde woman, Molly found herself in the most breathtaking place of her life. They had left London, though Molly had no idea where they were, and were approaching a huge old mansion, grand and storybook-esq. Captured in old Gothic architecture, made of marble and blinding white stone, and surrounded by sprawling gardens. It was a little girls dream home.

Within moments they were both whisked into the house by a surprisingly sprightly and ancient looking butler, with Mr Holmes being taken up stairs and Molly being escorted to what she assumed was an ornately furnished sun room. She was guided to a sofa, where she found herself now, basking in the warming feel of the sun.

“Ms Hooper, I presume?”

Molly squeaked and jumped up from her perch. A man, not so much older than her, was standing in the door way of the room, dressed dapperly in a three piece suit and perfectly shined dress shoes. His face was similarly constructed to Mr Holmes', but rounder and this man had well kept lighter brown locks in stark comparison to the other man. They looked opposite to each other.

“Yes, that's me,” She managed to get out awkwardly. 

“I suppose you have questions?” the man stated with what Molly thought sounded like revulsion in his voice, as he situated himself in the arm chair near where Molly had been seated.

She bit her lip.

“How is Mr Holmes?”

The man before her squinted and inclined his head towards her. Molly thought that maybe her expected her to ask something different. 

“My Brother is recovering in his room. He is not going to overdose, to answer your next question, but her will have a … troubled time coming down from his high.”

Molly nodded.

“How can I help.”

The man, presumably another Mr Holmes, sat back in his seat.

“Ms Hooper, are you not curious about where you are or who I am?”

She bit her lip and twisted her hands tighter together.

“I am, but I care more about the well being of Mr Holmes. All other things can wait.”

“And if you are in danger?”

“I don't .. feel like I am.”

She watched, holding her breathe as the man twisted the umbrella in his hands before pressing the tip almost harshly against the floor.

“My brother,” he finally spoke firm and clear, “Is on the third floor, at the end of the right hallway. Do not expect. A warm welcome, if welcome at all.”

Molly sprung from her seat, ready to run back to the main entrance and sprint up that amazing staircase until she found the strange man. She couldn't let this go, maybe it was the doctor in her or her fathers ingrained lessons on never leaving the wounded to bleed out on their own, but she had to know that Mr Holmes was going to be okay.

“Oh, Ms Hooper?”

Molly halted on the threshold.

“My Brother dose not have friends.”

Molly frowned.

“I am not looking for a friend, Mr Holmes,” She spoke despite herself, “I am caring of the health of a person in need. Sentiment plays no part in my actions.”

She was out of the room before she could hear his flighty chuckle;

“Margaret Hooper … how blind you are..”

Running at what she knew was an inappropriate pace for inside Molly quickly found the room the older man had directed her too, surprisingly not tripping over her own feet. She stopped at the door, panting and heart beating frantically, and before she could open the door-

-it opened itself, revealing a small kindly looking woman on the other side.

“Oh!” The woman exclaimed, placing a hand over her heart, “I didn't see you there dear, you gave me a little fright.”

“Oh, I am so-”

“You must be Molly then,” The woman beamed, bouncing slightly and causing her purple chiffon dress to flutter elegantly, “Sherlock mentioned you before. It is not often he brings home pretty girls after his outings!”

Molly blushed. Sherlock? What an odd name.

“You can go in now if you like,” the woman continued, undeterred by Molly's few responses, “Thankfully he is in a more agreeable mood today. Someone up there must he fond of me.”

“Thank you-”

“Mrs Hudson, dear. Ring if you need anything.”

And just like that the woman was gone, sunny disposition and kindly face carried off down the darkly lit hall. Molly couldn't help but wonder how she had gotten the black eye though.

Sighing and pushing down all her jitters, Molly stepped through the door way into the strange man's- Sherlock room. 

The room itself was painted simply, and draped in dark patterned curtains that kept all but a small amount of light from reaching the four post bed. The four post bed where the mop headed Mr Holmes lay, tangled up under his thick black sheets.

“I was wondering when you would show up,” a voice came from under the sheets, “I was sure Mycroft would interrogate you for longer.”

“He didn't seem very interested in me.” Molly tried to say in a soothing tone as she took the seat next to the bed.

“Hmmm ...He has someone in your apartment right now. You wont have to worry about that stalker now.”

Molly sighed.

“How are you feeling?”

He sighed right back.

“Boring.”

“I doubt that.”

The man's head, bleary eyed and brow drawn tight, peaked out from under the sheets.

“Why are you hear?”

Molly frowned right back.

“I … I wanted to see that you get better.”

He snorted.

“I know you are aware that one dose not 'get better' from my affliction.”

“Do you mean addiction?”

Sherlock glared at her.

“I am not addicted.”

“You can stop whenever you want?”

“...Yes.”

Molly smiled, and then felt it fade as she saw the man's hands twist in the sheets. He was in pain.

“I ...” she all but whispered out, “I don't know why I am here exactly … but I don't think I am going to leave you here like this.” 

“You don't think?”

“I don't seem to have much say in what happens to me today.”

Sherlock looked at her, long and hard like he was reading an equation.

“… You care... that is not a very smart move, Molly.”

She reached out her hand, placing it on the bed instead of on him. Molly had the feeling he wasn't the kind of man who liked to be touched even when he wasn't high on narcotics. Nothing today was making sense, so why should it now?

“I … plan on taking an oath to preserve life wherever I can. That means I have to care, no matter how hard I wish I didn't. It would be against everything I am to leave you here to come down on your own.”

Sherlock shifted, getting comfortable in his bed as he continued to stare at her. Molly thought, fleetingly, that he was beautiful in a unique way. Beautiful like a whale song, sad and mournful and more knowing than she could perceive. A broken man hidden away inside a castle, struggling against a demon that twisted under his own skin.

He cleared his throat, croaking baritone cutting through he still confounded mind.

“You … don't know me.” 

She smiled.

“I want to.”

And she didn't leave. Through cold turkey and midnight gutter falls, running through rain swept streets and throwing out needles, botched dates and murder scenes, Molly never left. She kept him sober when she could, following him around when he needed it and never once leaving. It was unhealthy, she knew, but Sherlock Holmes was a genius without an outlet.

Until on a blistering Hot day Molly watched as he tore apart a murder case in front of an astounded Detective. She would always remember smiling as she watched Sherlock find his niche and set her free from her watch. She didn't remember crying, how could she? Sherlock never left her either, not even for a moment.

Until Mike the day bought John Watson into her lab. The day Sherlock didn't need a guard any more and found himself a friend.

 

xxx

 

It took a week for Molly to be let go from Hospital. A long week, due to Molly's insistence to be taken off of the painkillers the second she had the clear mind to do so. No one said anything, but they all thought Sherlock seemed to sit easier at her side without he beaconing packets of drugs in the room. John wanted to tell her to stop compromising for the great git, but then he thought to how much he didn't know about the woman and wondered if he had the right to do so.

They all felt a weight leave them when Molly was cleared to leave. But then they were faced with a different challenge.

The Press could only be described as ravenous. They were everywhere any of the group went, chasing them down streets and camping outside buildings. It was terrifying. How could they subject Molly to that.

But then, they never should have doubted Sherlock, should they?

A small cottage lay in the seaside town of Port Isaac in Cornwall, named Lyres House. A small cottage by the sea and in front of a sprawling patch of forest, bracketed by a well kept garden and constantly under the surveillance of Mycroft Holmes. Aka a Sherlock approved safe haven or more commonly; Mrs Hudson's childhood home.

Sherlock and Molly disappeared with Mrs Hudson to the cottage the second Molly was cleared for release, sending nought but a short text to John. He wasn't angry- well he was but not much. It was easy to see his best-friend's motives.

It took John a week to give in and follow Sherlock to Cornwall, which was obviously the man's intention all along. Mary was more than happy to accompany him. She had grown fond of Molly and wouldn't pass up a chance to interrogate Sherlock.

It was all very cheesy.

But somehow it fit.

So that is why on a sleepy Sunday morning John and Mary found themselves sitting in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, revealing in the bright blue sky and sunshine that they never got in London.

“...And Mycroft has promised to 'goad the press' or something, just so we can go home!” the land lady chirped as she placed tea cups in front of them on the floral topped table, “He is a good boy when he wants to be, that Mycroft.”

Mary smiled at the older woman.

“You sound like a Mother.”

“I was as good as.”

John didn't ask. As much as it burned him not to he didn't ask.

“It all seems so foggy,” The woman went on, “like I will wake up tomorrow and he will be gone again.”

“Where is he exactly, Mrs Hudson?”

She smiled sweetly at John.

“In the garden somewhere, with Molly. That boy has been out there from the second we got here, gallivanting about while Molly trails behind. Reminds me of when they were younger.”

Okay John couldn't let that one pass.

“How long have they known each other exactly?” Mary asked before he could. John loved his finance.

“Years. He just came home one day with her in tow. Sweet little dear, she didn't want to leave him while he was .. Ill.”

“So he dose have more friends then just John.”

“Not friends dear,” Mrs Hudson spoke softly, looking around as if unsure weather she should be saying such things, “Our Molly kept Sherlock from … himself. Simple as that.”

John shook his head.

“You know what Mrs Hudson,” He spoke, pleading silently for his wife to agree, “We are way too sober for this conversation.”

The land lady smiled.

“Read my mind dear.”

So as the three sat in the small sunlit kitchen, Molly and Sherlock sat in a sunlit clearing in the middle of the surrounding Forrest, hands entwined and tapping out silent codes as they watched the bees dance in the flowers around them.

It was cheesy and boring and somewhat anticlimactic.

It was real though.

So it was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I may rewrite the ending. I wrote the ending first and wrote the story based off of it, a boring bland ending like the kind you would find in real life. Like the kind of moment you live through every now and again and realize while in it that it is just the calm before the storm.
> 
> So yeah don't hate me. God this took a long time. I need season three,


End file.
